


Joyless Daylight

by voleuse



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-19
Updated: 2004-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-09 00:46:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sun burns him.  She'll make it better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Joyless Daylight

**Author's Note:**

> Set after "Home."

Connor isn't sure when the dreams started.

He thinks back, and his memory gets fuzzy when he tries to remember anything before puberty. Before that, all he can recall of his dreams is orange and smoke. His father told him they had been caught on the edge of a forest fire once, while camping in Colorado, and he figures that's what fueled those hazy nightmares.

His recent dreams, however, are much more vivid.

Everything is blood, and metal-sharp flashes of teeth. The adrenaline rush of pain.

Lush, willing curves under his shaking hands as the world crumbles around them.

Medusa, who he thinks he loved, before Perseus cut off her head. He can see her face, at the moment before she died, and in his dreams, he trembles from guilt. Sometimes, in his dreams, he is Perseus, and his heart breaks as he kills her.

*

 

During the day, he's just another undergrad, unremarkable in every way. His major is undeclared, his clothing is nondescript, and his girlfriend is pretty, but unremarkable.

He feels like something's missing, but he can't figure out what it is.

*

 

The first time he and Tracy have sex, they're in her dorm room. Her roommate has astronomy lab, and they have to study for a psychology midterm. He makes a half-sly joke about developmental stages of something or other, and the next thing he knows, they're naked and awkward beneath the sheets.

Afterwards, they dress in silence, and he stands, colt-like, by her bed. "Do you..." He's not sure what to say. "Are we okay?"

She nods.

"Do you want me to go?"

She nods.

He gathers up his books and heads for the door.

*

 

After the exam is over, Tracy catches him outside. "I'm sorry about last night."

He quashes every question he has. "No, I am."

She looks at her feet as a couple of their friends pass by, shuffles her sandal against the cobblestones. "I thought I was ready."

"It's okay." He clutches at his bookbag, doesn't hear his textbooks creak in his grip.

"Can we..." She bites her lip. "We need to take a break."

He doesn't have anything to say, so he nods.

She looks at her watch. "Call me later?"

He nods, and watches as she jogs off to her next class.

He misses his.

*

 

That night, he dreams of a woman, dark where Tracy was golden, and plush where Tracy was sharp. She whispers in his ear of _real_, and he sinks into her like he's melting.

She is compassionate, and he weeps against her shoulder, because no one will ever understand.

When he wakes in the morning, he feels bereft.

*

 

He looks for Tracy in the cafeteria during lunch. He catches sight of her, at the other end of the room. She's with a group of her friends. He gets her attention, and waves.

She looks away.

Connor doesn't eat that day.

*

 

She doesn't call him that night, so he leaves a couple of messages on her answering machine. That night, he dreams of a blonde woman, Tracy's height, but prettier, and older.

She wraps her arms around him, and her embrace feels like rapture. She strokes a hand through his hair and calls him her darling, and he doesn't want to let go of her, ever.

She presses her lips to his forehead, but he can feel the press of her teeth against his skin. They're sharp, but he likes it.

He wants more, but when he tightens his arms, they pass through her like smoke.

And then she's gone.

*

 

Usually, Tracy sits next to him in their psychology class, but he doesn't see her before class starts. He takes a seat in their usual place, but five minutes after the lecture begins, he sees her slip into the back row.

She finds him after class, and he tries to apologize again. She kisses him gently, and asks for more time.

*

 

A week later, she still hasn't really talked to him, and he's starting to despair of ever seeing her again.

He's stopped mentioning her name when he calls home, and he thinks his mother is getting suspicious.

He's training himself to, in his own mind, label her his _ex_-girlfriend.

At night, he dreams of dying.

There's a man, tall, strong, and sad. He kills Connor in a variety of ways, but it always begins in the same way.

He hugs him. Tells Connor he loves him, and that he'll always love him. Then he...

Stabs him. Strangles him. Snaps his neck. Cuts him until he bleeds.

He always wakes up happy.

*

 

A month later, a friend mentions Tracy's new boyfriend. He doesn't say anything in response.

He tells his mother that he and Tracy grew apart. Different classes, different interests. It's only natural.

In his dreams, he's died in 27 different ways, all of them painful.

When a couple of guys from his trig class invite him out for a beer, he shrugs and meets them at their suggested seedy bar.

He drinks them under the table, and barely feels a buzz.

*

 

He likes going out to bars, drinking shot for shot with guys he barely knows. He thinks it's therapeutic, but knows there's another term for it in his psychology textbook.

He isn't going to check. He dropped the class, anyway.

After prevailing in a couple of drunken brawls against, he's pretty sure, frat boys on steroids, he gains a reputation. When he walks into bars, the tough guys in leather jackets eye him sideways, and nobody dares to bother him.

They think he's dangerous, and he doesn't try to dissuade them.

He likes feeling this way, because he can't feel anything.

He tells his parents that he's happy, but he doesn't care if they believe him.

*

 

Tracy shows up at his door one day, and he lets her in with a scowl.

She looks around his room, and he watches her catalog disarray where order used to be. "I'm worried about you."

"Really?" He laughs, flops onto his bed, and stares pointedly at her jacket, three sizes too big. "You have a funny way of showing it."

"Connor." She wraps her arms around herself, and he notes how her hands disappear under the jacket's bulky sleeves. "What's going on? They say you're drinking, staying out all night, getting into fights--"

"Thanks, but I already have parents." He sneers, stalks over to the door and flings it open. "Nice of you to stop by."

She looks at him, wide-eyed, but all he sees is fear.

He doesn't bother to slam the door after she's gone.

*

 

That night, he dreams of a woman with pale skin, dark hair, and golden eyes. Her face isn't _right_ but he thinks she's beautiful.

The moon shines blue on her face, and she extends a hand to him, swan-like. "Will you dance with me?" He can see her voice quiver in the air.

"Y-yes," he stammers, feeling like he's thirteen instead of six years older, and takes her hand clumsily.

She draws him to her, close, and writhes her hips against his. "Isn't the music sweet?" she asks.

"There isn't any music," he replies, and her mouth is red as blood when she smiles.

"There's always music," she whispers against his neck. "You just need to listen carefully."

He tries to catch what she is hearing, but all he hears are screams.

*

 

The next night, Connor slinks into a club, letting the throbbing music wash over him, taking the place of his heart. He maneuvers through the crowd, aiming for the bar, and signals for a beer while he's still a few yards away.

Before he gets to the counter, however, slim, strong arms encircle him from behind, and his studied swagger stuttering to a halt. He growls, breaking the vise of arms, and turns to confront the interloper.

It's her.

She smiles like a cobra, and he sways at the force of it. "Do I know you?"

"Like blood, like water," and she raises her arms, twists them to the beat of the music. "Like death." She places her hands on his chest. "We share it."

She smells like jasmine, and something that reminds him of the physics lab. He bows his head and tries to name the scent, but she giggles.

"I need to see the stars." She gathers his shirt in her hands and backs slowly, slowly, slowly through the crowd. He follows like a puppy, panting from contained exuberance.

Once outside, she pulls him slowly down a dark alley, until her back is pressed against damp brick, and his hands are braced beside her shoulders.

She leans, her tongue darts out, and he barely feels the wet of it against his lips before she's backed away. "Just like him," she murmurs, and he doesn't understand, but her hand is snaking inside his khakis, so he doesn't think about it much.

He thrusts awkwardly against her hand, and hesitantly touches her breasts. She giggles, and he blushes. "What's your name?"

"You know my name," she responds, and _squeezes_, and he comes with a pitiful groan.

"I don't remember your name." He inhales shakily, watches her lick his come off her hand. "Have we ever met?"

"We should have," she mutters. "We will."

A group of people exit the club, chattering loudly, and he startles.

When he turns back to her, she's already gone.

*

 

He sleeps fitfully, and dreams of her.

They dance slowly, and the lace of her dress is rough against his naked skin. He whimpers as she deliberately grinds against him, and he kisses her neck.

"What's your name?"

Her laugh echoes in the empty air. "You know my name."

He feels confused. "What's my name?"

She kneels, draws him down with her. Lies back, and lifts her skirt. Spreads her legs, and he thrusts into her, desperately.

"I don't like your name." She arches her back. "I'll give you a new one."

"Please." Everything feels too fast, too jagged, and he's not going to last a minute more. "Tell me."

Her nails dig into his back. "Caligula." He feels blood begin to well under her fingers. "My Caligula."

Then he wakes.

*

 

He goes to his classes, but nothing registers. He looks blankly at people when they ask him questions. He walks away from concerned friends.

All he can think about is her.

Halfway through thermodynamics, he walks out. Goes back to his room, lays on his bed. Closes his eyes, and strokes at his cock, and imagines it's her mouth.

*

 

The club opens at 7:30, but he's there at seven.

He smiles stiffly at the bartender and requests a bottle of tequila. Doesn't blink at the price, although he should. Does shot after shot, watches as people trickle, then rush in.

At half past midnight, she appears by his side. "Why don't you dance?" She's wearing leather and red silk, and he hardens at the sight of her.

"I only dance with you."

She bares her teeth in the parody of a smile, and he tosses a couple of bills on the counter before following her out of the club.

They're back down the alley in a minute, and she strikes like a viper, tongue in his mouth and legs around his hips, and he's got her pressed against the wall before he knows what's happening.

Everything's going so quickly, but it's slow as honey to him. She's unbuckling, unbuttoning, unzipping his pants, and he tears her blouse in his haste to see her.

It's just like his dream, except harsher, colder. Thought of a condom brushes in his thoughts, but it would take too long, and he has to be inside of her _now_.

"Now," she hisses, echoing his want, and he plunges into her like a starved man.

He thinks of his dream as he fucks her, and remembers his question.

"What's your name?"

"You know." Her eyes flash yellow in the light, but he doesn't notice, really. "You know," and it's a snarl.

"I don't," and he feels empty. Lost, and he needs her to find his way again. "Who am I?"

She smiles beautifully then, and her teeth glint sharply in the club's neon light. "You're mine."

Her head darts forward, and he feels the prick of her teeth before she bites down, bites him, and he realizes what she is. His hips buck against her, again and again, and she yowls with pleasure as he dies.

*

 

When he opens his eyes again, she's standing over him. "Welcome back." She kicks something, and he turns his head to see a girl, whimpering. She's small and blond, and he thinks she looks familiar.

He doesn't dwell on it as he kills her, drinking deep. When he's full, he wipes the blood from his mouth and grins up at her. "What are we going to do now?"

She loops an arm around his waist as he stands, and kisses him chastely before speaking.

"We're going to go find Daddy."

**Author's Note:**

> The fretful stir  
> Unprofitable, and the fever of the world  
> Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.  
> \- _Lines completed a few miles above Tintern Abbey_,  
> William Wordsworth


End file.
